Here Comes the Jackpot Question in Advance
by faith2727
Summary: What do you do when you're stranded at the train station on Christmas Eve? Celebrate anyway! Damon and Elena discover that hanging out with a stranger for the holiday isn't the worst thing in the world. Written for the 2016 DE holiday A2A exchange.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.  
**

 **Here's my story for the 2016 DE holiday A2A exchange, written for sauriemilia's awesome** **prompt:**

Two strangers (Damon and Elena) missed their respective trains and are stranded in the station on Christmas Eve. Without other options than to wait until morning they decide to make the best of their situation by improvising a celebration. If you manage to get smut involved then who am I to judge? ;)

 **This one was a ton of fun to write. Hope you like it! Happy Holidays! :)**

* * *

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

A grandmotherly type on the bench to Damon's right scowls at him, and he shrugs an apology. Sometimes there's no other way to accurately express how screwed you are.

Removing his sunglasses, he squints at the board of arrival and departure times again. Shit. He hasn't had a hangover this bad in years, and there's no hair of the dog in sight. He probably should've passed on that final round of shots—and the five rounds before it—at Enzo's party last night, but he's never been one to back down from a challenge.

He rubs his eyes and refocuses on the board. If he's seeing things correctly, his train left . . . two hours ago.

With a resigned sigh, he hitches his bag over his shoulder and glances around for the customer service desk. He finds it quickly enough thanks to the line of people a mile long, all wearing disgruntled expressions mirroring his.

Attempting to travel on Christmas Eve wasn't his wisest choice, but then again, he's always been a little shaky in the good decisions department.

Taking his place at the end of the line, he spends the next forty-five minutes in agony as the little brat in front of him passes the time by screaming and wailing until the pounding in Damon's skull is nearly unbearable. He's tempted to wrap his scarf around his head to muffle the ear-splitting noise, the resemblance to Marley's ghost be damned.

In the midst of all the racket, he picks up on a lone woman's voice that stands out from the others, mostly because it's calm. Unflustered. Oh, she's disappointed, no doubt, but she isn't yelling at the clerk or making unreasonable demands. It's just . . .

Quiet acceptance.

Craning his neck so he can see over the people—and their hats—in front of him, he spots her. Well, the back of her, anyway. Her red, knit beanie is pulled down over long hair the color of dark roast coffee. _Jesus, could I ever use some of that right about now_. The ends are wavy, probably from being out in the snow. Her scarf is striped, red and white, like a candy cane. Festive. Matching red mittens and a black pea coat complete the ensemble.

She turns away from the counter, but before he can catch a glimpse of her face, the monster child stops shrieking long enough to kick him in the shin.

"Son of a—" He bites his tongue at the last second, narrowly avoiding a showdown with the mother, who glares at him over her shoulder. _Merry Christmas to you, too_.

It's a miracle he makes it to the window without throttling anyone. He grimaces at the clerk while rubbing the sore spot on his leg. "Kids these days," he grumbles, and the woman behind the desk offers him a tight smile. "I'm pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but are there any other trains to Chicago today?"

She types the information into the computer, her long, manicured nails clicking away at the keys. "I'm sorry, sir. The last one left—"

"Two-and-a-half, three hours ago?" he ventures.

"Yes."

Figures. "Is there one tomorrow?"

"Bright and early."

"Great." Not. As a notorious night owl, he doesn't tend to function properly until the clock reads PM.

Heaving a sigh, he fishes out his credit card and slides it across the counter. One overpriced ticket later, he plunks himself on a bench to text Stefan. The hangover excuse will lead to an ass reaming he definitely doesn't need, so he puts his imagination to work.

 _Train was attacked by a horde of malicious squirrels. Leaving tomorrow morning instead. Should be there in time for dinner. Tell the rugrats Uncle Damon will see 'em soon_.

He tucks his phone in his pocket and goes on the hunt for a cup of lifesaving coffee. On the way there, he passes a gift shop, a fast food place, and a small convenience store. It's not a bad place to spend the night, he muses. He's certainly weathered worse.

Ten minutes and a steaming cup o' joe later, he's scouting out a spot to make camp when a flash of red catches his eye. A red beanie, specifically. Ms. Cool and Collected from the customer service kiosk is sitting on a bench a few rows over, fingers furiously tapping at her phone screen. If only she'd look up—

Ah, there. Brown eyes. Chocolatey brown. Pink cheeks. Soft lips.

Okay, so he might be guessing on that last one, but they seem like the type he could kiss for days. Theoretically.

Without realizing it, he finds himself sitting at the end of her bench. She continues texting, oblivious to his presence. He takes advantage of her intense focus, stealing covert glances between sips of coffee. At least his head doesn't feel like it's going to explode anymore. He's tempted to strike up a conversation. He's a chatterer by trade, a socializer who loves uncovering the intriguing details of people's lives. It's practically part of his job description, after all.

He drums his fingers on his knee as he searches for the perfect icebreaker. Not the weather, or the Yankees, or that guy over there wearing light-up antlers and a Rudolph nose. She deserves better than that. Faking a yawn and stretching so he has an excuse to peek at her again, he realizes he's putting an awful lot of effort into deciding what to say to her.

Since when has smooth talker extraordinaire Damon Salvatore ever been at a loss for words?

Since now, apparently.

###

Satisfied that her mom and Jenna are up to speed on her missed-train debacle, Elena sets her phone aside. She managed to kill a whole . . . twenty-two minutes. Umpteen million to go. Tugging off her hat and scarf before she starts sweating, she does her best to ignore the guy who just sat down a few feet from her. She remembers seeing him briefly in the customer service line. It's not easy to forget eyes like those.

She fluffs her damp hair, feeling self-conscious as his gaze lands on her again. Did she forget to zip up her pants or something? She's not a supermodel or a celebrity. He shouldn't be _that_ interested in her.

Him, on the other hand . . .

With his unruly mop of black hair, striking, pale blue eyes, snug jeans, and leather jacket, he's basically a walking advertisement for slipping between the sheets. It should be illegal to be so nonchalantly attractive. She can't see his shirt from this angle, but it probably says, _Don't Bring Me Home to Your Mother_.

Okay, the staring thing has got to stop. She unbuttons her jacket and turns abruptly, catching him in the act.

"Do I have something on my face?"

He has the good grace to look embarrassed, but only a smidge. "No, not at all." He smiles, and she can't really recall why she was annoyed in the first place. "What brings you to this fine establishment on Christmas Eve? Miss your train?"

Smooth. "Yeah, unfortunately. You, too?"

"Guilty." His phone beeps, and he checks the screen, smirking at whatever he finds there. "Sorry. My brother's not real happy with me. After a glass or two of spiked nog, I can usually be persuaded to play Santa for my niece and nephew, but that's gonna have to wait until tomorrow."

"You? Santa?" she asks in surprise. "I'm having a hard time picturing it right now."

"You wound me," he sniffs, feigning a hurt expression. "Damon Salvatore, by the way. Smartass, Southern gentleman, and proud owner of Bourbon or Bust." He offers his hand, and she's too charmed not to take it.

"'Bourbon or Bust,' huh? Is that a bar?"

"Yup. Best damn bar in Richmond, if I do say so myself."

 _Richmond?_ "Get out. That's where I'm supposed to be headed. Virginia, not the bar," she clarifies with a laugh. "My family lives a few hours from there."

"Small world."

It's at this point that she realizes she's still holding his hand but hasn't introduced herself. "Oh! I'm Elena Gilbert, professional Dominatrix."

Damon's eyebrows fly up into his hairline. He finally clears his throat, his voice a little shaky. "Seriously?"

She can't resist teasing him a teensy bit longer. "Absolutely. I could tell you stories that would curl your hair."

His mouth falls open, drawing her attention to his lips, which are very nice. Kissable, even. _Whoa, where'd that come from?_

"That's . . . that's fuc—" He stops and swallows hard then tries again. "That's hot as hell."

Taking pity on him before he has a complete meltdown, she pats his arm and giggles. "Just kidding. It sounds much more exciting than being a starving writer. Well, slightly less starving now, but still."

Damon blinks once, twice, then a slow smile spreads across his face. "Ah, you had me there. My mind was spinning in all sorts of _interesting_ directions," he emphasizes with a wink. "You're a 'slightly less starving' writer?" he asks, putting air quotes around her words. "Does that mean you've published something?"

"I have, actually." She allows herself a moment to bask in her accomplishment. "It's not going to end up on the _Times_ Best Seller list or anything, but I'm proud of it."

"Congratulations. What's it about?"

"It's a Christmas romance. Two strangers end up stuck together for the holiday . . ." She trails off as the irony of their current situation catches up with her. "Wow."

He chuckles at her reaction. "Bet you didn't expect it would turn out to be autobiographical."

She grimaces. "At least my characters get to stay in a comfy log cabin, not a drafty train station."

"Mmm." He looks thoughtful for a moment, then his eyes brighten with a devious gleam. "Is it"—his voice drops to a whisper as he leans closer—"smutty?"

"You perv!" She shoos him away, although she's unable to hide her grin before he sees it. "You can't read a book unless there's sex in it?"

"I didn't say that. If they're in a cozy cabin, things could . . . progress from there," he points out.

When she just stares at him, unwilling to take the bait, he nudges her arm.

"So, do they?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. You'll have to read it and find out."

"Do you have a copy with you?"

"I gave the last one I had to a friend. Sorry." Caroline wouldn't leave her be until she handed it over.

He slumps in his seat, looking dejected. "Bummer. What are we supposed to do now?"

" _We_?" Since when did they become a pair?

"We're stranded together, aren't we? Just like your fictional couple, who may or may not knock boots." She reaches over to swat him, but he dodges the blow. "I think we should have a party. Celebrate. It beats sitting here alone and miserable."

He has a point. Still, the shops aren't going to stay open forever. In fact, they'll probably close early because of Christmas Eve. "How are we going to do that?"

"Oh, c'mon." Damon stands and stretches, treating her to a glimpse of skin as his shirt rides up. "You're a creative type. I'll take care of the food and drink part, and you can be in charge of decorations."

What the hell are they supposed to decorate? Each other? "Okay, um, sure."

Apparently pleased with himself, he heads in the direction of the convenience store, and she stares at the rather large potted plant that probably wishes it was in some tropical paradise instead of a train station in the middle of winter.

"Decorations," she mutters to herself. "Right."

###

When Elena returns from her mission clutching a couple bags, she discovers Damon's beat her back to their bench. He's sitting sideways, booted feet crossed at the ankles. At first, she assumes he's messing with his phone, but then she sees the book in his hands. He has the cover bent back so she can't tell what he's reading, but it's enough to make her panic. He didn't find a copy of her book, did he? He couldn't have. In a train station?

Impossible.

She sets down the bags, and he straightens, quickly tucking the book under his discarded jacket. "What are you up to?" she asks, trying not to sound too suspicious.

"Just doing a little light reading while I was waiting," he answers innocently. "Whatcha got there?" He pokes around in one of the bags, but she bats his hand away.

"Nosy. Should we eat then decorate, or vice versa?"

"You hungry?"

Her stomach answers for her, growling loud enough for Damon to hear it.

"Guess that answers that question." He grabs a paper sack and puts it between them. "How do you feel about burgers and fries? It's not the fanciest Christmas Eve dinner, but our options are pretty limited."

"Not a problem. Love 'em."

They chow down on their fast food feast in amiable silence, watching as the last wave of people shuffle through to board the day's final trains. Damon finishes before her, wadding up his wrapper and tossing it in the trash.

"I got snacks and stuff, too, for later. What's your stance on eggnog?"

"I like it, but it's even better mixed with bourbon or rum."

"Now you're talkin'." He gives her a thumbs-up and pats his duffel bag. "Fortunately, I came prepared."

Elena's eyes widen in surprise, then she shrugs. It _is_ supposed to be a party, after all. "Have bar, will travel?"

He snickers as he scores another basket with her empty fry container. "Something like that."

"Alright, let's get festive, shall we?" She picks a bag and searches through her purchases. Finding what she needs, she holds them up, trying to stifle a giggle at his reaction. "Do you want to be an angel or"—she studies the other headband—"a person with sequined Christmas trees sprouting from your head?"

He arches a dark brow. "Do I look like the angelic type to you?"

"Hey, no judgments here."

His smile makes fluttery things happen in her belly. "I think you'd better take the halo." He puts it on for her, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear in the process.

Pretending his touch has absolutely no effect on her whatsoever, she holds up the other headband. "May I?"

"Knock yourself out." To his credit, he sits still while she affixes the wacky tree antennae to his head. Being an uncle, he must have a high tolerance for wearing ridiculous things. "How do I look?" he asks when she finishes, nodding until the trees sway back and forth.

"Not bad. A bit like a Christmas alien, but a handsome one," she adds when he recoils at the initial description.

"Well, when you put it that way . . ." He lets the words hang in the air between them, and she goes back to digging in the bag so he doesn't see the blush spreading across her cheeks.

Passing him a garland and a package of ornaments, she grabs the second bag and pulls out a box of lights.

"Um, Elena?"

"Yeah?"

"These usually go on a tree."

"Yep."

"But we appear to be treeless."

She points to the potted plant, which is at least four feet tall. It's not ideal, but it'll do in a pinch.

"We're decorating a plant," he deadpans, looking more uncertain about this than the headbands.

"It'll be fine. Just embrace your inner Charlie Brown, and voila!" She plugs the lights into an outlet and starts carefully stringing them across the large, floppy leaves.

He shakes his head but eventually joins in, draping garland and hanging miniature candy canes and toy soldiers. When they're done, she sits back and admires their work.

"See? I never thought it was such a bad little tree."

"Okay, Linus."

###

Damon sips his eggnog, relishing the pleasant warmth of the alcohol as it slides down his throat. He doctors Elena's with a splash of bourbon—courtesy of the emergency flask in his bag—and passes it to her, enjoying the way her eyes close in bliss as she tastes it.

This has to be the most unusual Christmas Eve he's ever experienced, but it's not terrible. Far from it. In fact, it's bordering on really fucking awesome, and it's all because of her. The woman sitting next to him wearing a halo, drinking spiked nog, and whittling the end of her candy cane with her tongue until it could double as a shiv can tell hilarious jokes, sing "Jingle Bells" in Spanish, and match him sass for sass. It doesn't hurt that she's also beautiful, a fact he's finding harder to ignore as the hours tick by.

Before he embarrasses himself by blurting out some of the wildly inappropriate things swirling around in his brain, he focuses on a safe topic: family.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"A younger brother, Jeremy." Elena pops the candy cane back in her mouth, and he tries not to be jealous of the treat. Too late. "What about you? Aside from your brother, I mean."

"Nope, just Stefan."

"Got any funny holiday stories about the shenanigans you two must've pulled as kids?"

He pops open a box of cookies and selects a Santa head, biting off the pompom on his hat. "It's a miracle we survived to adulthood, to be honest. There was almost always a yearly sledding adventure that ended with one or both of us in the ER. I'm surprised my mother didn't lock us in the house. Hmm, let's see." He searches for a particularly hilarious memory, something that'll bring on that adorable giggle of hers. "My favorite thing to do was rearrange the body parts on Stefan's snowmen. Y'know, stick the eyes on the back, put an arm on its ass. The carrot ended up in some interesting places," he recalls with a snort of laughter.

"Poor snowmen!" She attempts a look of disapproval, but then those cheeks dimple and he gets the giggle he was after. _Bingo_.

"Did angelic Elena harass her little brother, too?" he inquires sweetly, chomping into another cookie decorated to resemble a sprig of holly.

She shakes her head. "I was pretty good most of the time, but he loved to wake me up early on Christmas morning. Super early. One year, I was really tired and I wanted him to leave me alone, so I convinced him he had the date wrong. It took a while and some very creative explanations, but he finally sulked and went back to bed. My parents weren't too happy with me, but at least I got some sleep."

"Meanie," he mock scolds, appreciative of her ingenuity. "You might have to surrender your halo for that one."

"Nah. He forgot all about it when he opened his presents and found the video game I bought for him." Her phone jingles, and she sets down her nog so she can dig it out of her pocket. "Oh, shit. It's my mom. Hang on a sec."

He nods and unearths the book from beneath his coat, delving back into Jack and Leona's story. He's been plowing through it every time Elena steps away to visit the bathroom or stretch her legs. He didn't want to admit it, but it's undeniable now. He's hooked.

Flipping to the next page, he strikes gold. Leona was outside in the cold too long, and now Jack's determined to warm her up. There's a roaring fireplace, and clothes are falling to the floor . . .

"Damon? You still in there?" Elena flicks at one of his tree antennas until he tears his gaze away from the page to focus on her. She must've finished her call while he was absorbed in the story. He didn't even notice.

"What _are_ you reading?" She tries to unfold the cover so she can see it, but he holds it out of her reach. "C'mon, show me!"

"Hang on," he laughs as he fends off her efforts to take the paperback from him. "I just got to a really good part. Listen to this." She stops attempting to crawl into his lap and sits back on her heels, hitting the eggnog again. Satisfied that he has her attention, he skims the page and finds the scene he wants. "'Jack tried to ignore his throbbing erection while he freed the clasp on her bra, revealing Leona's full breasts. He dragged in a sharp breath at her sheer beauty as the firelight played over her bare skin. Dipping his head, he took a dusky nipple in his mouth and suckled the firm peak'—"

Elena chokes on her drink, coughing and spluttering and gasping for air. He pats her on the back until the fit passes. When she can breathe normally again, she pokes him in the chest. "That's my book!" she croaks. "How did you get it?"

"I found a copy in the gift shop." He turns it over and points to the author's name on the cover. "You didn't tell me you used a pen name. I had to read the summaries of every book in the Romance section."

"Oh, god." She covers her face with her hands. "I'm so embarrassed."

His brow furrows at her reaction. "Why? This is awesome."

"You're reading smut. That I wrote," she emphasizes. "It's—"

"It's amazing, is what it is. I can't get enough." He winks, hoping to coax a smile out of her.

Elena groans and dabs at the spilled nog on her jeans with a napkin. "You're just being nice."

"No, I'm not. Trust me."

She peers at him as if she's trying to decide if he's actually being sincere. After studying him for a moment, her frown fades. "Really?"

"Really." Damon holds the book out to her. "Would you sign it for me?"

She hesitates for a second or two then finally takes it. "Um, sure. Give me a little while to figure out something to write. I've never done this before," she admits shyly.

"No problem." Just when he thinks she couldn't possibly be any more endearing, her cheeks redden. He gives himself a mental high five for making her blush twice in one night.

Exercising his gift of gab, he draws her back into conversation mode, learning that she had a pet grasshopper—Mr. Hoppy—when she was four, she's a sucker for karaoke, and she can't stand mayonnaise, strawberry shakes, or pickles, which explains why she stealthily scraped them off her burger earlier. He tells her about his love of classic cars, his massive collection of vinyl records, and the garage band he was in during his rebellious teenage years, Apocalypse Wow.

"I did _not_ come up with that name," he adds over Elena's peal of laughter.

Before long, they've gone through the cookies, the eggnog, and most of the bourbon in his flask. He offers her the last swallow, but she waves it away, trying to stifle a yawn. He drains the rest of it and makes a quick trip to the bathroom, hurrying back in case she nods off. There aren't many people in the station, but he doesn't want to leave her by herself if she falls asleep.

When he returns, he finds her tugging a red and green plaid blanket out of her suitcase. His book is sitting on top of his jacket, and he scoops it up, curious to see what she wrote inside.

 _Damon,_

 _Thanks for a truly memorable Christmas Eve. If I had to be stranded with someone, I'm glad it was you._

— _Elena :)_

It's his turn to feel heat dancing across his skin, and he's not sure if it's because of the bourbon or her sweet words. Tucking the book safely away in his duffel, he turns to find her watching him intently.

"Thanks for signing my book. I really appreciate it."

She smiles and glances down at her lap then back at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Of course."

"And what you said about being stranded? Ditto."

Her grin gets a little wider, and he suddenly has the urge to kiss her. Those big, brown eyes are doing funny things to his insides. Still, they've only known each other for what—eight hours? _Better cool it_ , he warns himself.

"Ready to call it a night?" he asks instead, settling on the bench beside her.

"Yeah," she admits. "I hate to, but I can hardly keep my eyes open." She shifts around as if she's searching for a comfortable spot, and he taps her on the shoulder.

"You might want to hang up your halo first."

"Oops. I completely forgot about that." She plucks off the headband and sets it aside. "And yours, too!"

He dips his head so she can remove the sequined trees. She combs her fingers through his hair to smooth the messy strands, and . . . holy fuck. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to start purring.

Satisfied with her work, she goes back to rearranging her blanket, and this time, he can't help himself.

"If you want to, you can use my arm as a pillow," he offers. "But if you'd rather not, I understand."

She stops to look at him. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

Sliding closer, she drapes the blanket over both of them and rests her head on his shoulder. She smells like peppermint and clean laundry, and he closes his eyes, soaking up all the details so he'll always remember this moment. "Won't your arm go numb after a while?"

"Nah." The damn thing could fall off and he wouldn't be bothered. "Warm enough?"

"I think so." She rubs her cheek on his sleeve, and he bites back a groan. "Sorry in advance for any drool that might happen," she warns with a sleepy smile.

"I'm not worried."

They're both quiet for a few minutes, then Elena's soft voice breaks the silence. "Goodnight, Damon."

"'Night, Elena."

###

" _Attention, passengers! The six-forty departure for Chicago is on time and will begin boarding in thirty minutes."_

Elena stirs when she hears "Chicago," recalling that that's the train Damon needs to catch. She stretches and pushes the blanket off her. Someone must've cranked the thermostat because she's roasting. Rubbing her eyes and blinking sleepily at her surroundings, she discovers why.

At some point during the night, Damon slid sideways, and since he was propping her up, she followed him down. Now, she's tucked between him and the bench, and he's basically acting as her personal body pillow. Mortified to find she's lying half on top of the poor man, she tries to disentangle herself, but his arm is around her waist, preventing her retreat.

"Damon." She says his name softly, not wanting to startle him. "Your train's leaving soon."

He mumbles something she can't quite make out and hugs her tighter to him. _Okay, that's sweet, but not helpful_.

"Damon!" she calls, louder this time. "Wake up."

"Don't wanna," he grumbles, refusing to loosen his hold until she smacks him none too gently on the shoulder.

"You can't be late this time. Your brother will kill you."

He finally cracks his lids, stunning her again with those baby blues. "But this is so much better."

" _Damon_."

"Fine. I'm up, I'm up." He withdraws his arm, reluctantly it seems, and she sits up so he can do the same.

"Sorry, I, uh . . ." Her lame apology fizzles out as she gestures to indicate the near-compromising position they'd been in.

"Do I look like I mind?" There's that devastating smirk. He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his shirt, somehow still managing to ooze sex appeal despite their lackluster sleeping arrangements.

"You're incorrigible."

He shrugs and saunters off to the bathroom, and she takes advantage of his absence to search through her bags for the present she bought him last night. It was a spur-of-the-moment type thing, but she thought it would be nice considering they're both away from their families on Christmas morning.

Finding what she needs, she carefully wraps it in tissue paper and sticks it in a bright red gift bag. Placing it under the tree—er, plant—she cleans up the remnants of their impromptu celebration while she waits for him to return.

" _The six-forty train bound for Chicago will begin boarding in fifteen minutes."_

 _Damn_. He'll have to leave soon, bringing their time together to an end. Why does that reminder bother her so much?

"Ugh. I'd rather go back to sleep." She jumps at the sound of Damon's voice, whirling around to find him right behind her. "Sorry," he murmurs, hands held up in apology. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine. Um, before you go, I have something for you." She steps back and points to the gift bag. "It's not much, but since it's Christmas and all . . ." God, when the hell did she revert to her awkward teenage self? She might as well stammer out an invitation to be her date for Homecoming while she's at it.

He doesn't appear to notice her extra dash of dorkiness as he picks up the bag. "You got me a present?"

"It's no big deal, really."

The tissue paper rattles as he reaches inside and pulls out the Santa hat she found at the gift shop. It was the last one they had. He runs his fingers over it, a big smile blooming on his face. "Hey, this is awesome, and it's not one of those scratchy, felt ones, either. It's soft." He dusts the tip of her nose with the pompom then tugs on the hat. "Warm, too."

She scuffs her boot on the floor, ridiculously happy that he's pleased with her gift. "I figured it might come in handy with your niece and nephew."

"Definitely. They'll go nuts." He steps past her and bends down, unzipping his duffel. He takes something out and holds it behind his back. "While we're at it, I have a present for you, too."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Neither did you, but here we are. I didn't have a chance to wrap it up all fancy, so close your eyes and open your hands," he requests. "Don't worry. I'm not going to pie you in the face or anything," he adds with a chuckle.

Elena does as he asks and feels him place a stiff, rectangular object onto her outstretched palms.

"Okay, you can look now."

She peeks at the gift, then her eyes go wide as she sees the leather-bound journal topped off with a big, red bow. "Damon, this is . . ." The words that usually come to her so readily vanish, and he mistakes her unexpected brain lapse for disappointment.

"If you don't like it, I can take it back. Since you're a writer, I thought it might be useful so you can jot down notes or whatever you do when the muse strikes." He scratches his head, jostling the Santa hat until it's perched at a jaunty angle.

"No, no." She practically trips over herself in her rush to clear up the misunderstanding. "It's absolutely perfect. Thank you."

His grin returns, threatening to melt her into a pile of mush. "You're welcome. Thank _you_."

" _The six-forty train to Chicago is now boarding. Passengers should proceed to Track B at this time."_

"Shit, that's me." Damon slips on his coat and gathers his bag but makes no move to leave just yet. "I had a blast hanging out with you. It's safe to say this is a Christmas I won't forget."

"Me, either." Before she talks herself out of it, she raises up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek, savoring the light scratch of stubble beneath her lips. She's not sure if she'll ever see this devilishly handsome, kind, captivating man again, and she's determined to seize the moment. "Merry Christmas, Damon," she whispers as she pulls back.

What she's _not_ expecting is his reaction. Dropping his bag, he cradles her face in his hands and lowers his head, covering her mouth with his. The kiss is slow and gentle, a tender tease of his lips brushing over hers. She grips the sleeve of his jacket, crushing the leather in her fist, and leans into him.

The kiss comes to an end much too soon for her liking, but she knows if he lingers any longer, he'll miss his train. Again.

He rubs his thumb over her cheek as they part. "Merry Christmas, Elena. I hope our paths cross again." With a wink and a wave, he hoists his bag onto his shoulder and heads in the direction of the departure gates while she stares at his back, still lost in the feel of his soft lips caressing hers.

She sinks down on the bench, nearly sitting on her present. Picking up the journal, she takes a pen from her purse and flips back the cover, figuring she can put Damon's gift to good use while her mind continues to try to process what just happened. A glimpse of black ink catches her attention, and she brings it closer, studying the unfamiliar handwriting.

A phone number is scrawled at the top of the page, and below it reads:

 _What are you doing New Year's Eve?_

— _D_

* * *

 **Be on the lookout because there'll be a part two coming your way! Things are super busy at the moment, so it might take me a little while to write and post it, but it'll happen. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.  
**

 **Hey, everyone! I'm finally back to finish this up. Better late than never, right? ;)** **Thanks so much for all the faves, follows, and lovely reviews. You're the best! xo**

 **There was one part of the prompt I didn't get to before, but I've remedied that here. Let's just say the story's really living up to its rating now. ;)**

 **Much love to the wonderful, amazing, all-around best partner-in-fangirling Daroh for the beta. *mwah***

 **Enjoy, and if you feel like leaving a review, that'd be awesome. :)**

* * *

Elena makes the next turn, her eyes darting back and forth as she searches for the sign that will tell her she's come to the right place.

 _The destination is on your right_ , Siri chirps, and Elena hits the brakes a little too hard, nervously glancing in her rearview mirror to see if anyone's giving her the finger. Thankfully, there's no irate driver waiting to rip into her, so she uses the temporary reprieve to peruse the storefronts and other businesses on the block, looking for the one she needs.

She finally spots it, surprised at the slab of aged wood with gold lettering that reads _Bourbon or Bust_. She might've been expecting a flashing neon sign to match Damon's electric personality, but this is nice. Classy. Probably not the kind of signage attached to a place where she'll get groped by the first drunk patron she comes across, which is a relief.

The private lot Damon told her about is just ahead, and she pulls in, grateful to be done with her drive. New Year's Eve traffic is a snarl she could do without. Still, this trip is worth the hassle.

She tosses the pass he sent her on the dash so she won't get a ticket and spends a few harried moments smoothing her hair, reapplying her lip gloss, straightening imaginary wrinkles in her dress, and generally trying to make herself presentable for what feels like—and essentially is—a first date. An official one, anyway.

A gust of wind on her way up the sidewalk almost has her doing an impromptu reenactment from _The Seven Year Itch_ , but she flattens her skirt to her thighs just in time. Cursing the unusually cold air, she rubs her hands together to warm them because, of course, she left her damn gloves in the car.

The front door gives with the gentlest of pushes, and the tinkling of a bell announces her arrival. She shifts from one foot to the other, wishing she could ditch her cramp-inducing heels after wearing them for the entire trip, and gazes at the room full of chatting, laughing, generally cheery-seeming bar goers. The main seating area is packed, and it takes her a couple minutes to scout out a small, miraculously empty table in the corner. As she heads toward it, she passes the bar, craning her neck and peeking over people's shoulders in an attempt to locate Damon in the melee. She sees the bartender—a woman sporting a friendly smile and light brown hair styled in a pixie cut—and another man, his voice laced with a British accent, helping her serve drinks.

"Where are you?" she mutters, her words immediately swallowed up by the din surrounding her. Waitresses are bustling back and forth from the kitchen, delivering plates of nachos, wings, and fries. A burger catches her eye, reminding her of the Christmas Eve dinner she and Damon shared. If only she could find him now . . .

"Is this seat taken?" a familiar voice asks, his lips brushing her ear as he leans in close so she can hear him.

Elena jumps and grips the table, her heart pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to hammer its way out of her chest. "Jesus!"

"Sorry." Damon pats her shoulder, grinning at her reaction. "Just me. Worried a serial killer's going to sneak up on you in a crowded bar?"

She scowls at him as she tries to remember how to breathe, but then he holds his arms open for a hug, and she abandons her slightly put-out act and goes willingly. Eagerly, even.

"You've gotta stop doing that," she murmurs into his shirt, soaking up the warmth of his embrace.

"Scaring you or hugging you?" He's rubbing her back, the soothing motion encouraging her to stay wrapped in his arms indefinitely.

"The scaring part. Hugs are nice. Really nice." Great, here comes her awkward alter ego again.

"Happy to hear it."

When they part, she makes the mistake of looking into his eyes, the irises a darker shade of blue in the dim lighting. Her gaze dips downward, taking in the black V-neck tee and snug-fitting jeans. She chews her bottom lip until the urge to blurt out something embarrassing passes, her cheeks heating as he continues to watch her with the same alluring smile.

"Thanks for having me," she finally manages.

"I'm glad you came." He treats her to the same visual inspection she just gave him. "You look beautiful." Her blush is burning out of control now, a five-alarm fire raging across her skin. Mercifully, he curls a hand around hers and gently tugs her toward a staircase she hadn't noticed before. "C'mon. It'll be quieter up here. We won't have to shout at each other."

As they weave through a sea of people, she considers the string of events that led to her spending New Year's Eve in a bar with a guy she met a week ago in a train station. On the surface, it sounds like the plot of a Lifetime movie that's about to take a very bad turn, but this feels different. Spontaneous. Exciting.

The beginning of a new adventure.

###

As Damon sinks into a chair across from Elena at the table for two he may or may not have put a "Reserved" sign on earlier in preparation for her arrival, he runs his hands over his jeans, wondering when the hell he lost his cool. He had it when they first met. In spades. Now, his palms are sweaty and his leg is jogging up and down with a nervous tick he hasn't had since high school.

Maybe it's because the station was neutral territory, but this is his bar—his _baby_ —and she's here with him. Does she like it? Hate it? Think it's too small? Too seedy? Not seedy enough?

 _Whoa. Slow down, Salvatore_.

Instead of letting his panicked thoughts get the best of him, he focuses on Elena and the little black dress she's wearing. It's perfect for tonight, and the lace accents provide tantalizing glimpses of skin. Plus, those heels. Damn. Add drool to his laundry list of issues.

She's still flushed, and it only deepens as he stares. "Shit, sorry," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can whip you up a cocktail that'll make Sex on the Beach seem like a romp in the janitor's closet." He waggles his eyebrows and gets her signature giggle in return.

"I am kinda hungry, actually. Could I get a burger, but without—"

"Pickles. I remember." Or strawberry shakes. Or mayo. All these tidbits about her are already stored in his brain as if they've always been there.

"Impressive." She smiles and rummages in her purse, handing over a twenty. "Will this cover it?"

He waves it away. "Your money's no good here."

"Damon . . ."

"Nope. You're my guest, so whatever you want, it's on the house."

She pouts and tries to push the bill across the table. "That's not fair."

His hand settles on hers. "My bar, my rules. How about that drink?"

"I know it's lame, but I better stick with water for now. If I get too tipsy, I tend to forget stuff, and I don't want that to happen tonight."

Well, hell. Can't argue with that logic. "Water and a burger, coming up. Fries?"

"Um, sure."

"You got it. Be back in a few."

###

When Damon returns from the kitchen balancing a basket of food in one hand and a glass of water in the other and puts them in front of Elena, her mouth falls open at the sight. Adorably, of course.

"That is a _mountain_ of fries. I hope you're planning to help me eat all this."

"I can probably be talked into it."

She attacks the burger first, and it retaliates by leaving a glob of ketchup on her chin. Before it drops onto her dress, he pulls a stack of napkins from the dispenser and passes them to her, earning him a grateful smile.

"Thanks." She wipes her mouth and tries a fry instead, probably figuring it's safer. "You're too good at this. Are you sure you're not already taken?"

"Positive."

Elena's not convinced. "Seriously? You own a snazzy bar and look . . . like you do, all handsome and capable of making people swoon."

He lights up at her description. "You think the bar is snazzy?"

She pauses mid-fry. "That's all you got out of that?"

"Um, also something about me being passably good-looking?"

She lobs her wadded up napkin at him, and he watches as it bounces off his chest and skitters across the table. Her slightly miffed expression only lasts another second or two, then she's grinning and rolling her eyes. "You're impossible."

"Part of my charm," he agrees with a wink.

"So you're well and truly single?"

"Well and truly." When he first opened the place five years ago, the steady stream of women eager to invite him into their beds was an added perk, but the whole one-night stand thing really isn't his scene. "What about you, O Mistress of the Night?" he teases. "Looking for a new addition to your harem of men?"

Elena turns beet red and plucks at a sesame seed on her bun. "Sorry to disappoint, but there's no harem. Believe it or not, when you spend most of your time at home hunched over a laptop, it doesn't do wonders for your social life."

He dusts a grain of salt from the tip of her nose. "I might know a guy who's interested in coercing you away from your computer every now and then. I hear he's a big fan of your work. Even has a signed copy of your book on his nightstand."

She laughs and picks up a fry, offering it to him. "You're laying it on a little thick."

"Am I? I didn't notice." He nibbles on the end of the fry, deliberately keeping his gaze locked on hers.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a bit of a flirt?"

"Once or twice."

With the are-you-sure-you-aren't-dating-anyone landmine cleared, they settle back into the comfort of casual, easy conversation, catching each other up on their respective holidays. She lets it slip that she's been using the journal he gave her, and damn, if that doesn't make him feel good. Her smile when he describes the rugrats' reaction to his Santa hat is positively radiant. They'd plunked themselves on his lap and babbled until dinner was ready. Even Stefan had been impressed.

Damon managed to trade a few texts with her during the past week, but family obligations kept the chit-chat to a minimum, much to his dismay. The highlight was when she dropped a particularly juicy tidbit about maybe leaving the big city behind and moving back to Virginia, and he'd _really_ like to see that happen.

The art of persuasion is one of his talents, after all . . .

He's preparing to put it to use when someone beckons to him from downstairs.

"Damon, can we get a hand? The rush has arrived," Enzo, his assistant manager and backup bartender, hollers. The man's usually cool in a crisis, but a quick glance confirms that the place is now standing room only, and he and Rose are frantically trying to keep up with the orders.

"Duty calls." He sighs and grabs a fry for the road. "Hopefully, I won't be down there forever. Promise you won't leave before midnight?"

She bats her lashes, and, intentional or not, it makes him wish he didn't have to go. "Promise."

"If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Roger that." She gives him a thumbs-up, and he lingers for a second longer than he should. That smile of hers is a tough one to part ways with.

He finally takes off before Elena has to shoo him away, but the struggle is most definitely real.

###

Elena glances at her phone for the hundredth time and draws a random design on the tabletop using the condensation from her water glass. Five minutes to twelve. Despite Damon's best intentions, the unending flow of patrons has kept him busy behind the bar. She's happy business is booming, but she misses his company. If she listens closely, sometimes she can pick his voice out of the jumble of conversations taking place around her. It's a little like being in the eye of a storm.

Maybe he's grateful for the reprieve after she acted like such a dork. Again. "Who says 'Roger that'?" she groans, flicking at a crumb. Still, she didn't think their date would become a party of one. If she wanted to be lonely tonight, she could've easily accomplished that by staying home.

A flat screen television mounted on the wall flickers to life, showing the revelers in Times Square, smiling and waving at the cameras. Three minutes left now.

She peers over the edge of the railing, surveying the mob scene below. It might be worth it to wade into the horde and try to find a spot at the bar. At least then she'd be in Damon's vicinity when the clock hits midnight.

She scoots her chair back, immediately bumping it into someone else's. "Oh, sorry!" The guy doesn't seem to mind as he gives her a crooked smile and salutes her with his half-empty beer bottle.

Gracefully weaving her way through a crowd has never been her forte, and she proves it still isn't by stumbling, stepping on toes, and quietly cursing a blue streak. She hasn't even made it to the top of the stairs when she hears the countdown begin, a chant that spreads across the bar until everyone joins in:

"Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . ."

"Dammit," she mutters, frustrated by the lack of movement. Her path is completely blocked in every direction as couples pull each other close in preparation for a traditional New Year's Eve smooch. "Excuse me, please!" she tries again, but her request falls on deaf ears.

"Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . ."

She finally finds a tiny opening in the swarm of bodies and dashes for it, but someone catches her by the wrist and presses a glass of champagne into her hand. "What are you—"

Damon grins at her, looking every bit like the mischievous kid who used to get in a sledding wreck every winter. He loops an arm around her waist, coaxing her nearer until not even a whisper of space separates them.

"Three . . . two . . . one . . ."

"Happy New Year, Elena," he murmurs as he dips his head, thrilling her for the second time with the way his lips play over hers—teasing at first then settling into something more serious. Something that has her tightening her grip on the stem of her glass and clutching his shoulder as her knees start to wobble.

She's vaguely aware of the hubbub surrounding them: glasses clinking as toasts are made, peals of laughter, a chorus of "Happy New Year"s. "Auld Lang Syne" starts playing somewhere—the TV? The jukebox? She can't be bothered to think about it any longer as Damon deepens the kiss, surprising her with a hint of tongue.

 _More of that, please_.

Her hand leaves his shoulder and slides around the back of his neck, fingers curling in the soft hair at his nape. No one's kissed her like this in . . . well, forever. Damon seems content to explore her thoroughly, his focus solely on her. There's nothing sloppy or rushed about it. This is a man who knows exactly what he's doing, and it shows with every gentle swipe of his tongue and brush of his lips.

When they part, it takes her a moment to catch her breath. She's not the only one affected; his exhale is sharper than normal, a touch unsteady.

"Happy New Year," she echoes, embarrassed at how raspy her voice sounds. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"No chance of that happening," he assures her.

She arches a brow. "I could've been stuck kissing some stranger."

"Then I guess it's a damn good thing I found you when I did. I didn't mean to be gone so long, but things were crazier than I expected. I'm all yours now."

The smile that accompanies those words is positively swoon-inducing. Damon Salvatore is a dangerous man—dangerous to her sanity. "Not that I'm complaining, but how did you get up here so quickly?"

He gestures behind her. "There's another set of stairs in the back for the staff."

"Ah. Handy." She raises her glass, studying the tiny bubbles gathered just beneath the rim. "Is this the part where we make a toast?"

"It is." He lifts his as well, easily holding her gaze. "Here's to a brand new year filled with good health, happiness, and the thrill of the unexpected. It's already off to an amazing start."

She beams at him as they clink their glasses together. "Cheers."

The champagne goes down smoothly—a little too much so—and she polishes it off in a few swallows, enjoying the pleasant warmth it leaves in its wake. "This is delicious. Can I have more? Just a bit? I don't want to go overboard."

He nods and chuckles, gathering her hand in his and entwining their fingers. "Right this way."

###

"So, have you given any more thought to what you mentioned the other day—moving back to Virginia?" Damon asks, breaking the companionable silence. Now that the bar is closed, empty except for the two of them, they don't have to yell to be heard. His tone is casual, but his undivided attention tells her how interested he is in her answer.

"Um, yeah. I think I might." She grabs a mozzarella stick and pushes the basket toward him. "Eat the rest of these. Save me from myself." Snacking on fried food in the early morning hours wasn't her wisest decision.

He laughs and bites into a stick, stretching the stringy filling until it snaps, dangling down onto his chin. "That's good to hear," he says brightly after scooping the cheese into his mouth where it belongs.

"My family's here. Most of my friends are still in the area. Plus, there's this great bar that's run by a really sweet, sexy guy . . ." _Oops_. The post-champagne glow isn't finished with her yet, apparently.

"Sexy, huh? That's an upgrade from handsome," he points out, cocking a brow.

"Don't get too smug, or you'll revert back to passably good-looking."

He pouts. "Harsh."

"Your words, not mine."

Once the last mozzarella stick disappears, she checks the time. "Holy jeez. It's almost five. I'm so sorry. You should've kicked me out instead of letting me yammer on and on."

He waves away her concern. "I live in the apartment upstairs, so I don't have far to go. Besides, I'm always up late. This is normal for me."

"Still, I should probably make a mile. My friend's expecting me to crash at her place tonight—er, this morning."

"Wait a minute. Before Enzo left, he said it was getting icy out there. I don't want you to risk the drive if it's worse now."

"Lemme go check." She slips on her coat, struggling with one of the sleeves until Damon helps her.

He follows her to the front door, and after he unlocks it, she peeks outside. A light rain is falling, and her breath clouds the air as she scans the street. There's no traffic, no one wandering about.

"I can't tell from here." She carefully navigates the steps without wiping out—a minor miracle. The sidewalk has a sheen to it, but that could be from the rain. She decides to test it, venturing out onto the wet concrete.

"Elena, wait!"

Damon takes off after her, but it's too late. Her heels skid on the slick surface, and she flails her arms, hoping to grab onto something to stop her fall. Luck isn't on her side, however, and she lands on her ass. Hard. In a puddle.

"Perfect," she groans. Now that she's sprawled on the ground, she can see the fine coating of ice on the parking meters and benches.

"Elena!" Damon's at her side in an instant, nearly falling in a heap himself in his haste to get to her. "Are you okay?" His hands flutter from her face, to her arms, to her bare legs— _oh, hey, look at that scrape_ —and back again. "Shit. Let's get you inside."

###

 _Crappy weather. Staying at Damon's, so don't worry. See you later! xo_

Elena hits send, knowing the text will probably wake Bonnie, but she doesn't want her to panic when she never shows up. Her friend lives on the outskirts of Richmond, a short trip under normal circumstances, but she doesn't dare try it now. The last thing she needs is a fender-bender as the cherry on her series-of-unfortunate-events sundae.

Damon returns from the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand and a couple Tylenol in the other. He passes them to her and sinks down beside her on the couch, watching as she swallows the pills. "Let me see your palm," he says softly, taking the empty glass and setting it on the coffee table.

"It's no big deal, really." Turns out her knee isn't the only part of her that took a beating.

"C'mon, sidewalks are filthy." Before she can argue with him, he reaches for her hand and carefully turns it over, surveying the damage. "Ouch. Hang on."

He vanishes into the bathroom, and she spends the next minute or so trying not to dwell on the fact that she's lounging in a borrowed t-shirt and a pair of his flannel pajama pants—on loan while her clothes, undies included, are drying. She shivers and burrows deeper into the blanket he tucked around her as her dive into the puddle replays in her mind. After getting drenched in freezing slush, the cold has seeped into her bones.

Damon reappears with a washcloth, towel, and first aid kit, digging through its contents until he finds what he needs.

Her eyes widen at the sight. "Wow. You're prepared for everything."

"Bars and broken glass kinda go together," he explains. "We've all gotten some nasty cuts." He pats his lap, inviting her to swing her leg over his. When she does, he rolls up the bottom of her pants and slides the towel under her battered knee. The warm washcloth feels good on her skin, but she bites her lip when he encounters a tender spot. Damon winces in sympathy as he gently dabs at the scrape. "Sorry," he murmurs.

Some Neosporin and a few Band-Aids later, she's all patched up. "You don't have any Hello Kitty ones?" she teases, studying her bandaged palm.

He chuckles. "Fresh out."

"Are you sure you're not a secretly a doctor moonlighting as a bar owner?"

"Nah. Sounds like a good plot for a novel though. You should get on that," he suggests with a wink.

Another tremor runs through her, although she's not sure if it's chills or Damon. Both, probably.

His smile fades as he notices her trembling. "It's a lot warmer in my room. More comfortable, too. You can take the bed. I'll crash on the couch."

"Oh, no. I've already barged into your apartment and stolen your clothes. I can sleep here. I'll be fine." She tries to demonstrate by pulling the blanket tighter around her and curling into a ball, but Damon _tsk_ s and scoops her up in his arms.

When he deposits her on the bed and swaps out the blanket for his down comforter, she notices her book on the nightstand. "You were serious," she murmurs, opening it and rereading the message she wrote inside. How ironic. "Stranded again. I guess this is the sequel," she adds with a laugh.

"But this is better than the station, right?"

She says nothing, hoping to get a rise out of him.

He doesn't disappoint, eyes widening in alarm. "It's _worse_?"

"My overnighter in the station didn't require first aid." She crosses her arms over her chest, giving him her best I-mean-business 'tude. "Maybe I should sue the negligent bar owner for pain and suffering because he didn't tend to his sidewalk."

Damon couldn't look more shocked if she pushed him out of bed. He gapes at her, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to come up with a response. "But, I . . . you . . . we were . . . I thought . . ."

"I'm kidding." Elena snickers and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. "This is much, much better."

He shakes his head and bops her on the nose. "You have a devilish side, don't you?"

"Possibly."

"Mmhmm." Damon's gaze drops to their joined hands. "You're still cold," he frets, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "I don't have a fancy fireplace, but I could do a pretty decent job of warming you up, if you'll let me."

Her blush returns with a vengeance, and he grins, evidently pleased with himself.

"See? It's already working. Scooch over."

She makes room for him, and he tugs back the covers, crawling in next to her. His arms settle around her in a move that's so natural she doesn't even realize it until she finds herself leaning closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. It's quiet, peaceful—the only sound coming from an occasional rush of air as it leaves the heating vents.

As he strokes her back, she grips the neck of his shirt, her fingers slipping inside and flirting with the bare skin hidden under the thin cotton. Skin she's eager to explore.

"How're you doing?" he asks, a slight hitch in his voice when she traces the line of his collarbone.

"Not bad. Less achy." Without stopping to think about it, she presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat. "Thank you for taking care of me," she whispers.

"Elena . . ." He cups her cheek, urging her to look at him. When she does, she sees the emotions flickering across his face—uncertainty, desire, concern, need. She has no idea where this burst of courage is coming from since the slight buzz from the champagne faded long ago, but maybe it's because, for the first time in a long while, she's chasing something she wants. Something they both want, judging by the way Damon's pupils are swallowing the pale blue of his irises and his heart is thumping against her palm.

And it feels . . . right.

He clears his throat. "Are you sure?"

She meets his gaze head-on, warmth that has nothing to do with a comforter and flannel pajamas—and everything to do with Damon—pooling low in her belly.

"Positive."

###

 _God . . . damn_.

Damon's last coherent thought vanishes as Elena slips a hand under his shirt, trailing her fingers over his stomach and up to his chest. She pouts when the fabric won't go any higher, caught beneath his arms.

"This is a nice shirt and all, but can we make it go away?" She tugs on the hem again, insistent, and he barely manages to stifle a groan.

"Your wish, my command." He hauls the thing over his head and tosses it halfway across the room, eager to find out what her next move will be. He doesn't have long to wait.

Her hands settle on his sides as she studies him, the tip of her tongue sneaking past her lips. The intense look of concentration on her face when she leans in and feathers tiny kisses over his pecs and traces a path down to his belly makes the situation in his jeans go from mildly uncomfortable to holy-fuck-these-things-are-going-to-cut-off-my-circulation. Her thumb rubs absently— _no, she totally meant to do that_ —across his nipple, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"My turn," he murmurs, tipping her back onto the pillows. He grins as he palms her breast through the Jack Daniels t-shirt she's wearing. "I've never stripped my own clothes off of someone before, but I'm really, really looking forward to it."

Her soft laugh spurs him on, and rolls up the worn cotton, slowly exposing her skin inch by glorious inch. He's dying to put his mouth everywhere at once, but he settles on a spot just below her ribcage, enjoying the way her muscles contract at his touch. She squeals when he dips his tongue into her belly button, squirming in his hold. He pushes the shirt higher, revealing her full breasts. He's not usually a stop-and-stare kind of guy, but she's . . . exquisite.

"You're so beautiful, Elena."

Her blush is visible even in the near darkness. "Um, well—"

"You are." Unable to resist, he tongues her nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. She moans, sending a jolt of desire straight to his groin, and her fingers tunnel into his hair, holding him in place. His leg parts hers, his thigh tight to her core. When she rocks her hips, seeking the friction they both want, he nearly self-destructs. "Same problem," he rasps, gripping the edge of the shirt in his fist. "This has gotta go."

She happily lets him peel it off her, and that first moment of skin-on-skin contact—his chest pressed to hers—is pure heaven. He kisses her deeply while her hands flutter over his back, caressing him and hugging him to her. The minute he starts loosening the tie on her pajama bottoms, she lifts herself up so he can shuck them down her legs. A button pops free on his jeans, and he glances down to find her struggling with the zipper.

"A little help, please?" she asks sweetly, her hand snaking around to squeeze his denim-clad ass.

She doesn't have to repeat her request. His pants disappear in record time, followed by his boxers and socks. Now it's Elena's turn to stare, and judging by the way she licks her lips, she likes what she sees.

She grins and crooks a finger at him. "C'mere."

Damon narrowly fights back the urge to ravage her on the spot, reminding himself that she's still sore from her earlier spill. Returning to her waiting arms, he trails his fingers down her thigh then back up again, skimming them across her pelvic bone before delving between her legs. He entices her with barely there touches until she nips his bottom lip.

"Please, Damon," she whispers, hooking a leg over his hip and urging him closer. He eases a finger past her folds, and— _Christ_ —she's so soft and slick. So ready for him. He works her into a frenzy of need, content to forget about everything but the gorgeous woman writhing underneath him. Nothing could break his focus, even if the walls were to fall—

Her hand curls around his cock, and he shudders in her grasp, biting back a ripe curse. She strokes him once, twice, and he's a goner. He can't wait any longer. He wants . . . no, _needs_ to be inside her. Now.

His one-track mind almost makes him forget one very important detail, and he pauses long enough to hunt down a condom in the drawer of the nightstand. Once the situation is remedied, he's back to being an attentive lover. He claims Elena's mouth in a series of languorous kisses that leave him with a buzz; a sensual high he never wants to fade.

She resumes her strokes then guides him as he slowly enters her. He's not prepared for the feel of her silky heat surrounding him, which has him gasping for air in the crook of her neck. The way they fit together is sheer perfection. He'd be happy to stay like this indefinitely, but she has other plans. Her lips find his ear, and she whispers some encouragement, her words alone enough to draw a low moan out of him.

"You keep that up, and the fun'll be over before it even begins," he warns, rocking his hips against hers and settling into a steady rhythm of slow, deep thrusts. She clings to him, her nails digging into his back as he learns what she likes most. There's no awkwardness, no missing connection. They're completely in sync with one another.

Damon gradually quickens his pace until they're both panting, striving toward the inevitable release that's getting closer with every second that ticks by. He arranges her legs around his waist, and she enthusiastically meets each thrust until the pleasure becomes too much. Her eyes widen, her back arching off the bed as she cries out his name.

"I know," he soothes, his voice rough as his own orgasm bears down on him. "I'm right there with you." With one last jerk of his hips, he follows her over the edge. "Fuck!"

He collapses on top of her, realizing too late that he shouldn't have done that.

"God, Elena. Did I hurt you?" He tries to roll onto his side, but she wraps her arms around him and refuses to budge.

"You're fine. Just stay . . ." she murmurs, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead.

Reassured he isn't smothering her, he rests his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal. His gaze eventually lands on her book, and he chuckles.

"Y'know, I thought about borrowing some of Jack's suave bedroom moves, which you created, so they're technically yours."

"You don't need those," she points out with a grin. "Yours are amazing. Much better than Jack's."

"Yeah?"

She nods, giving him a sleepy smile. "Besides, our story isn't fictional. It's real."

He likes the sound of that. A lot. "Our story," he echoes. "It's not a short one, I hope?"

"I predict several chapters."

"A whole book?"

"Probably."

"With a sequel?"

"Could be."

"A series?"

"If we're lucky. For now, let's just take it one page at a time."

A kiss, unhurried and tender, seals the deal. He still can't believe a chance meeting in a train station on Christmas Eve led them here, but it did. This isn't a dream or a paperback romance. It's _real_.

And he wouldn't trade it for anything.


End file.
